It's been eleven years since my younger brother died. He would have been 29 last September 10. So easy to say that time flies, but somehow, somehow, I never grieved fully--and so eleven years later it has the freshness of yesterday's heartbreak. In the early stages, the first few weeks and months after his death, if I wasn't angry at the world and at God, if I wasn't plotting my own demise, I buried my nose in books, either trying to understand the inescapable pain and burden or escaping into horde of fantasy books. I remember feeling how thin the line between madness and sanity at that time. At any point I would've crossed over to madness and lived gleefully unaware of this sad, mad world.